Simply Unforgettable

called a courtship, she supposed, but she was very thankful that it could not. She far preferred a mild friendship that might—or might not—blossom into something warmer with time.

“What I would like to know,” Aunt Martha said, leaning forward in her chair, her eyes still twinkling, “is whether you danced with Viscount Sinclair, Frances.”

Annoyingly, Frances could feel herself blushing.

“Yes, I did,” she said. “He was very obliging. The earl had invited me to accompany them to the assembly at Miss Marshall’s urging, and the viscount was kind enough to dance with me after he had first led his sister out.”

“You did not tell me, Martha,” Aunt Gertrude said, “and I did not think to ask—is Viscount Sinclair both young and handsome, by any chance?”

“And charming too,” Aunt Martha said, and the elderly ladies exchanged a knowing smirk. “Now, was it one set or two you danced together, Frances, my love?”

“Two,” Frances said, horrified by the turn the conversation was taking. “But—”

“Two.” Aunt Martha clapped her hands together and looked enraptured. “I knew it. I knew as surely as I know my own name that he admired you.”

“Frances! How splendid!” Aunt Gertrude leaned forward and forgot about her shawl again. It slipped unheeded from her shoulders to the cushion behind her. The lap robe was already pooled at her feet. “Viscountess Sinclair! I like it.”

They were teasing her, of course. They were both chuckling merrily.

“Alas, I am afraid you are quite mistaken,” Frances said, trying to keep her tone light and the smile on her face. “Viscount Sinclair is to marry Miss Portia Hunt.”

“Balderston’s girl?” Aunt Martha said. “What a shame! Though I suppose it is no such thing for the lady herself. He is very handsome, Gertrude. But all may not be lost. No mention was made of any betrothal while they were here, and I have not seen any announcement in the papers since we came here, though I read them all quite conscientiously each morning. And he was pointedly interested in you, Frances, though he did not say so openly, of course. Without him I doubt I would have thought of inviting you here as a tonic for Gertrude’s spirits.”

“What?” Frances stared at her, aghast.

“It was he who suggested it.” Aunt Martha smiled smugly. “And though it was exceedingly kind of him to show such solicitude for two old ladies, something told me at the time that there was a young man with an ulterior motive. He wished to see you again himself, Frances.”

“This was all Viscount Sinclair’s idea?” Aunt Gertrude asked, looking quite charmed. “I like him already, Martha, though I have never yet clapped eyes on him. He sounds like a young man who knows what he wants and how to get it. We must invite him here to dine one evening—with his sister and the Earl of Edgecombe, of course. We came to London to see something of society after so long, did we not, yet after almost three weeks we have seen nobody—at least, I have not. But it is time I did. I already feel worlds better than I felt even an hour ago. Oh, Frances, dearest, I am only just realizing that you are actually here.”

Frances stared mutely at them.

This was his doing?

He was the one who had suggested luring her here?

Why?

He was not betrothed yet?

“But here we are rattling on,” Aunt Martha said, getting to her feet, “and you are so tired from your journey, Frances, that you are really looking quite pale. Come, my love. I will take you to your room, where you must rest until dinnertime. We will talk again this evening.”

Frances bent to kiss Aunt Gertrude’s cheek and allowed herself to be led from the room and up to a pleasant bedchamber on the floor above, which had obviously been prepared for her in the hope that she would come.

She lay down on the bed when she was alone, and stared up at the canopy over her head.

He had been here, in this very house.

He had suggested that she be sent for. Perhaps he had even suggested that Great-Aunt Gertrude’s condition be exaggerated so that she would be more sure to leave her duties behind. It would be just like him to do something so devious and high-handed.

How dared he!

Could he not take no for an answer? Could he not leave well enough alone?

Was it possible that he still wished to marry her? But when he had offered her marriage there in Sydney Gardens, he had done so entirely from impulse. That had been perfectly obvious to her. Surely when he had thought about it afterward he would have admitted to himself that he had had a narrow escape from doing something quite indiscreet.

After a whole month she was still raw with the pain of having seen him again, danced with him again, touched him, kissed him, talked with him, quarreled with him—and refused a marriage offer from him!

She was still deeply, hopelessly, in love with him.

She had been since just after Christmas, of course, and the feeling stubbornly refused to go away.

Perhaps because he stubbornly refused to go away.

And now he had contrived to see her again, using her great-aunts in a despicably devious plot to lure her to London.